The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  Lavon was able to secure an economy-class seat on the 8:50 Air France flight to Heathrow and by eleven that night was making his way wearily up the walkway of the Highgate safe house. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of the entire team engaged in a tumultuous celebration. He looked at Gabriel and asked, “Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Valves, pipes, vacuum pumps, bellows, autoclaves, feed and withdrawal systems, frequency converters, motor housings, molecular pumps, rotors, magnets.”

  “He’s selling them centrifuges?”

  “Not just centrifuges,” Gabriel said. “Saint Martin Landesmann is selling the Iranians everything they need to build their uranium enrichment plants.”

  “And I thought I had a good day.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing much.” Lavon held up the wax paper sheath. “Just Kurt Voss’s list of Zurich bank accounts.”

  PART FOUR

  UNVEILING

  56

  THE PLAINS, VIRGINIA

  The farm lay some fifty miles to the west of Washington, at the point where the first foothills of the Blue Ridge begin to sprout from the edge of the Shenandoah Valley. Residents of The Plains, a quaint hamlet located along the John Marshall Highway, believed the owner to be a powerful Washington lawyer with a great deal of money and many important friends in government, thus the black limousines and SUVs that were frequently seen roaring through town, sometimes at the oddest hours.

  On a bitterly cold morning in mid-December, a dozen such vehicles were spotted in The Plains, far more than usual. All followed the same route—a left at the BP gas station and mini-mart, a right after the railroad tracks, then straight for a mile or so on County Road 601. Because it was a Friday and close to the Christmas holidays, it was assumed in The Plains that the farm was playing host to a weekend Washington retreat—the sort of gathering where lobbyists and politicians gather to swap money and favors, along with tips on how to improve one’s golf swing and love life. As it turned out, the rumors were no accident. They had been planted by a division of the Central Intelligence Agency, which owned and operated the farm through a front company.

  The security gate bore a handsome brass sign that read HEWITT, a name chosen at random by one of Langley’s computers. Beyond it stretched a gravel road, bordered on the right by a narrow streambed and on the left by a broad pasture. Both were buried beneath more than two feet of snow, the remnants of a cataclysmic blizzard that had pummeled the region and paralyzed the federal government. Like most things these days, the storm had prompted a furious debate in Washington. Those who dismissed global warming as a hoax seized on the weather as validation of their point while prophets of climate change said it was yet more evidence of a planet in peril. The professional spies at Langley were not surprised by the discord. They knew all too well that two people could look at the same set of facts and come to radically different conclusions. Such was the nature of intelligence work. Indeed, such was the nature of life itself.

  At the end of the gravel road, atop a low wooded hill, stood a two-story Virginia farmhouse with a double-decker porch and a copper roof. The circular drive had been plowed the previous night; even so, there was not enough room to accommodate the armada of sedans and SUVs. Indeed, the drive was so crammed with vehicles that the last to arrive could find no pathway to the house—a problem, since it contained the most important participants of the conference. As a result, they had no choice but to abandon their SUV and trudge the final fifty yards through the snow. Gabriel led the way, with Uzi Navot following a step behind and Shamron in the trail position, holding the arm of Rimona.

  The entrance of the Israeli delegation prompted a round of cautious applause from the large group already gathered inside. The British had sent just two representatives—Graham Seymour of MI5 and Edmund Radcliff of MI6—but the Americans had shown no such restraint. Adrian Carter was there, along with Shepard Cantwell, the CIA’s deputy director for intelligence, and Tom Walker, its top Iran analyst. There was also someone named Blanchard from the Office of National Intelligence and Redmond from the Defense Intelligence Agency. Representing the National Security Council was Cynthia Scarborough, and from the FBI was Steven Clark, though how the Bureau secured an invitation to the conference would forever remain one of Masterpiece’s many mysteries.

  They gathered around the formal dining room table, behind nameplates, towers of black briefing books, and cups of weak coffee. Adrian Carter made a few introductory remarks before switching on the PowerPoint. A map of Iran appeared on the screen with four locations clearly labeled. Carter shone the red light of a laser pointer at each in succession and read the names.

  “Bushehr, Arak, Isfahan, Natanz. The key sites in the Iranian nuclear program. We all know the facilities well, but allow me to review them briefly. Bushehr is the nuclear power station built with German and Russian help. Isfahan is a conversion facility where uranium ore is turned into hexafluoride gas and uranium oxide. Arak is a heavy-water plant. And Natanz, of course, is Iran’s primary uranium-enrichment facility.” Carter paused, then added, “Or so it claims.”

  Carter lowered the laser pointer and turned to face his audience. “Our governments have long suspected those four sites are just the tip of the iceberg and that Iran is also building a chain of secret underground enrichment facilities. Now, thanks to our friends from Tel Aviv, we appear to have proof of our suspicions. And we believe Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments, is helping the Iranians do it.”

  Carter looked toward the Israeli delegation. “While it’s true we’ve all been seeing the same intelligence on Landesmann for the past seventy-two hours, it was Rimona Stern who managed to connect the dots first. For those of you meeting her for the first time, Rimona is a former major in the Israel Defense Forces, an excellent field operative, and one of the country’s most experienced intelligence analysts. You should also know that her uncle is none other than Ari Shamron. So I would advise you all to watch your step.”

  Shamron smiled and watched his niece intently as she rose and took Carter’s place at the front of the room. Without a word, she advanced the PowerPoint presentation to the next image. Once again, it was a map of Iran. But this time, only one location was labeled.

  The holy city of Qom…

  IT WAS QOM that proved the mullahs were lying, Rimona began. Qom that shattered any last misplaced hopes the Iranian nuclear program was intended for anything other than producing weapons. Why else would they conceal a secret uranium-enrichment facility deep in a desert mountain? And why else would they refuse to disclose the facility to the International Atomic Energy Agency, nuclear watchdog of the United Nations? But there was a nagging problem with Qom, she reminded them. It was designed to house just three thousand centrifuges. And if those centrifuges were Iranian-made IR-1s, Qom could only manu facture enough highly enriched uranium to produce one bomb every two years, not enough for Iran to become a full-fledged nuclear power.

  “Which should mean Qom is worthless,” Rimona said. “Unless, of course, there are other Qoms, other secret enrichment facilities just like it scattered around the country. Two facilities with six thousand IR-1s spinning in tandem could produce enough highly enriched uranium to make a bomb each year. But what if there were four facilities with twelve thousand centrifuges? Or eight facilities with twenty-four thousand centrifuges?”

  It was Tom Walker, Rimona’s counterpart from the Agency, who answered. “Then Iran could produce enough enriched uranium to build an effective nuclear arsenal in a matter of months. They could throw the nuclear inspectors out of the country and go for nuclear breakout. And if the chain of secret facilities is well hidden and fortified, there would be almost nothing we could do to stop them.”

  “Correct,” said Rimona. “But what if those centrifuges aren’t wobbly, unreliable pieces of junk like the IR-1? What if they’re similar to the P-2 models used by Pakistan? Or even better than the P-2? What if they’re
European designed and calibrated to the highest standards? What if they’re manufactured under conditions where they don’t end up with bothersome impurities like dust and fingerprints?”

  This time it was Adrian Carter who answered. “Then we would be staring down the barrel of a nuclear Iran in a very short period of time.”

  “That’s also correct. And I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s happened. While the civilized world has been talking, dithering, delaying, and wringing its hands, the Iranians have been quietly working to achieve their long-held nuclear ambitions. They’ve engaged in the time-honored deceptive practices of khod’eh and taqiyya. They’ve bluffed, deceived, and stalled their way to the doorstep of a nuclear arsenal. And Martin Landesmann has been helping them every step of the way. He’s not just selling the Iranians the centrifuges. He’s selling them the critical pumps, valves, and vacuums that link the centrifuges into a cascade. In short, Martin Landesmann is supplying the Islamic Republic of Iran with everything it needs to build uranium-enrichment plants.”

  “How?” asked Adrian Carter.

  “Like this,” said Rimona.

  THE NEXT MAP that appeared on the screen depicted the Eurasian landmass stretching from Western Europe to the Sea of Japan. Scattered across Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Belgium was a constellation of companies, more than a dozen industrial and technological firms, including Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg. All the firms were connected by dotted lines leading to the southern Chinese city of Shenzhen, headquarters of XTE Hardware and Equipment.

  “And guess who owns XTE Hardware and Equipment?” asked Rimona of no one in particular.

  “Global Vision Investments,” replied Adrian Carter.

  “Through many fronts and subsidiaries, of course,” Rimona added with a sardonic smile. “Mr. Landesmann also has a powerful partner, a Chinese private equity firm based in Shanghai that we believe is nothing more than a front company for the Ministry of State Security.”

  “The Chinese intelligence service,” murmured Steven Clark of the FBI.

  “Exactly.” Rimona walked over to the map. “Landesmann’s operation is much like the Iranian nuclear program it serves. It’s dispersed, well concealed, and it contains redundancies and backups. Best of all, Saint Martin is completely untouchable because the entire supply chain is based on dual-use technology that’s sold through cutouts. Martin is far too smart to sell the centrifuge cascades directly to the Iranians. Instead, he sells bits and pieces to XTE Hardware and Equipment. The Chinese then sell the finished product to trading companies in Dubai and Malaysia, which in turn deliver it to Iran.”

  “Can you tell how long it has been going on?” asked Cynthia Scarborough of the NSC.

  “Not precisely, but we can make an educated guess. We know that Landesmann purchased Keppler Werk in 2002 and started adding other European industrial technology firms to his secret portfolio soon after.”

  “So we’re talking about years then,” Scarborough said.

  “Several years,” replied Rimona.

  “Which means it’s possible the secret chain of enrichment facilities could be at least partially completed?”

  “That’s our assumption. And recent Iranian behavior would seem to support that position.”

  “What sort of behavior?”

  “For one thing, they’re tunneling like moles. Your own satellite photographs show the Iranians are moving more and more of their nuclear program underground. And not just at Qom. They’ve added tunnel complexes at Isfahan and Natanz, and they’re working on new ones at several other sites, including Metfaz, Khojir, and Parchin. Drilling tunnels into mountainsides isn’t easy. And it certainly isn’t cheap. We believe they’re doing it for an obvious reason—to hide plants and to protect them from attack.”

  “What else?” asked Shepard Cantwell of the CIA.

  “Natanz,” replied Rimona.

  “What about Natanz?”

  “The Iranians have moved forty-three hundred pounds of low-enriched uranium, virtually their entire stockpile, to an aboveground storage facility. It’s almost as if they’re taunting us to attack them. Why would they take such a risk?”

  “I suspect you have a theory.”

  “Iran’s economy is on life support. Its young people are so restless they’re willing to die protesting in the streets. We believe the mullahs might actually welcome an attack in order to reestablish their legitimacy with the Iranian people.”

  “But are they really willing to give up two tons of low-enriched uranium in the process?”

  “They might be if other secret facilities are spinning away. In that case, an attack on Natanz gives them an excuse to throw out the UN inspectors and renounce their participation in the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty.”

  “Which would then allow them to pursue a nuclear arsenal openly,” Cynthia Scarborough pointed out. “Just like the North Koreans.”

  “That’s correct, Ms. Scarborough.”

  “So what are you recommending?”

  Rimona switched off the PowerPoint. “Stopping them, of course.”

  57

  THE PLAINS, VIRGINIA

  There is a point in any such gathering when those who collect intelligence part company with those who analyze it. That moment came at the conclusion of Rimona’s briefing when Adrian Carter rose suddenly to his feet and began absently beating the pockets of his blazer for his pipe. Four other men rose in unison and followed him across the central hallway into the living room. A log fire was burning in the open hearth; Shamron warmed his liver-spotted hands against the flames before lowering himself into the nearest chair. Navot sat next to him while Gabriel remained on his feet, pacing slowly at the edges of the room. Graham Seymour and Carter sat at opposite ends of the couch, Seymour as if posed for a clothing advertisement, Carter like a doctor preparing to break bad news to a terminal patient.

  “How long?” he asked finally. “How long before they’re able to close the deal and build their first nuclear weapon?”

  Gabriel and Shamron both deferred to their chief in name only, Uzi Navot.

  “Even the IAEA has finally concluded that the Iranians already possess the capability to produce a bomb. And if Martin Landesmann is going to sell them the top-of-the-line centrifuges they need to produce a steady supply of fuel…”

  “How long, Uzi?” Carter repeated.

  “A year at the outside. Perhaps even sooner.”

  Carter inserted his pipe into his tobacco pouch. “For the record, gentlemen, my masters at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue would be most grateful if you would refrain from attacking Iran’s nuclear facilities now or at any time in the future.”

  “The feelings of the White House have been made clear to us.”

  “I’m just restating them now lest there be any confusion.”

  “There isn’t. And as long as we’re speaking for the record, no one wants to attack Iran any less than we do. This isn’t some faction of the PLO we’re dealing with. This is the Persian Empire. If we hit them, they’ll hit us back. They’re already arming Hezbollah and Hamas for a proxy war and priming their terror networks around the globe for attacks against Israeli and Jewish targets.”

  “They’ll also turn Iraq into a flaming cauldron and the Persian Gulf into a war zone,” Carter added. “The price of oil will skyrocket, which will plunge the global economy back into recession. And the world will blame you, of course.”

  “They always do,” Shamron said. “We’re used to that.”

  Carter struck a match and ignited his pipe. His next question was posed through a fog of smoke.

  “Are you sure about the China connection?”

  “We’ve been watching XTE for some time. The memos we dug out of Martin’s laptop merely confirmed all our suspicions.” Navot paused. “But surely you’re not surprised by China’s involvement in this?”

  “I’m not surprised by anything China does these days, especially when it comes to Iran. The Islamic Republic is China’s second-larg
est supplier of oil, and the state-run Chinese energy giants have invested tens of billions in Iranian oil-and-gas development. It’s clear to us the Chinese view Tehran not as a threat but as an ally. And they’re not at all concerned about the Iranians going nuclear. In fact, they might even welcome it.”

  “Because they think it will reduce American power in the Persian Gulf?”

  “Precisely,” said Carter. “And since the Chinese hold several hundred billion dollars’ worth of American debt, we’re in no position to call them on it. We’ve gone to them on numerous occasions to complain about restricted goods and weapons flowing from their ports to Iran, and the response is always the same. They promise to look into it. But nothing changes.”

  “We’re not suggesting going to the Chinese,” Navot said. “Or the Swiss, or the Germans, or the Austrians, or any other country linked to the supply chain. We already know it’s a waste of time and effort. National interest and pure greed are powerful trump cards. Besides, the last thing we want is to confess to the Swiss that we’re spying on their most prominent businessman.”

  “How many centrifuges do you think Martin has sold them?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “When was the first shipment?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “How about the last?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Carter waved a clear patch in the cloud of smoke in front of him. “All right, then. Why don’t you tell us what you do know.”